Moral Therapy
by SirienneHolmes
Summary: Rated M for content in later chapters! Holmes goes undercover in an insane asylum to try and unearth details about the mysterious deaths reported there. What he finds is that he is not as much of a machine as Watson sometimes thinks. WARNINGS: contains torture, abuse, ect. Inspired slightly by the game The Awakened.
1. Prelude

_Hello all! I'm going to try to write the original Holmes now because, well, it'll be a challenge, won't it? I'm basing the appearance and attitude of my Holmes off of a combination of my own imagination, Conan Doyle's writings, and of course, some of my favorite Sherlocks. These would be (in no particular order): Benedict Cumberbatch (Sherlock), Ronald Howard (Sheldon Reynolds' Sherlock Holmes), Basil Rathborne (Sherlock Holmes), and Jason Gray-Standford (voice actor of Sherlock Holmes in the 22__nd__ Century, for lack of a better identifier). My Watson is based purely off of the strong character that Doyle wrote, so I hope I do him some justice! (I hope I do BOTH of them justice!) Please enjoy! -SH_

**Prelude**

"Holmes! Holmes, are you all right?"

I sighed, turning away from my window for a moment. Watson was only worried about me, and I could understand it. But that didn't mean I was going to indulge him. I needed to think. "I'm fine, Watson. I'm just very tired."

"I understand, Holmes. I'll be outside if you need anything."

I thought about asking for a cup of tea. I was tired, to be sure, but I couldn't sleep. There was altogether too much on my mind. "Thank you, Watson. I shall call if I need you." Where would I be without my Boswell, after all? Still in that treacherous place, I suspect.

I took off my jacket and shoes and laid flat on my bed. I had lit my pipe some time ago, and was smoking it now, the calming taste of the tobacco a relief to my nerves. I faintly heard Watson outside, shuffling around, perhaps making tea or something, preparing for his long ritual. The fact that he was there comforted me, and I was quite relieved. He was capable with a gun, having been a soldier, and could defend our flat, should such a situation arise.

I closed my eyes for a long moment, envisioning the horrors I'd experienced of late. If I had not stumbled upon that old service elevator, and if Watson and the police had not been there to aid in my escape, I would have been captured and severely punished. But there is a factor of risk in going undercover, and I knew what would ensue. Although several elements were unexpected they were, of course, logical. I could say little else for them.

Morning surprised me, and it turns out that I had dozed, much against my will. I came out of my room to find Watson already sitting down to breakfast at our little table, a silver platter with the cover on and a place set out for me before him. It seemed as if he was almost finished. I crossed to the settee and lay down upon it, closing my eyes and folding my hands across my chest.

"Good morning, Holmes," Watson greeted cheerily. "Did you sleep well?"

"If against my will," I replied, settling my neck upon a pillow. "I see you are also rested."

"I did take a repose, Holmes." He admitted. "But I would have heard you if you'd called!"

I chuckled. "No doubt. Your hearing is impeccable."

"Would you care for breakfast, Holmes?" Watson offered.

I had to think a minute. Oftentimes, I broke my fast shortly after waking up, if something interesting did not require my full attention. Considering also that I'd neglected to eat anything last night, and my fare had been poor in days previous, I was indeed quite famished. I got up from the settee and sat before my plate. Watson had served me during my deliberation, and a few thick slices of ham and four delicious eggs now sat before me. Watson had retreated into the morning paper.

I picked up an egg upon my fork and put it into my mouth, chewing and swallowing slowly. The sheer eagerness I felt at tasting proper food once more only proved my hunger. However, when I swallowed, the food stuck in my throat, and I had to wash it down with tea. No, I was far too shaken still to eat, and I had to settle for tea until my nerves were properly calmed. I finished my tea and lay back down on the settee, closing my eyes once more.

Watson put down his paper. "Are you feeling all right, Holmes?" He asked with great concern.

"Truthfully, no," I replied solemnly. "This business has shaken me, Watson."

"Well, you are safe now, at any rate." Watson replied calmly. "Inspector Lestrade and the other policemen have seen to the arrests of those terrible people."

_Yes_, I thought, _but what of the other poor souls? They must be far more shaken than I_. Although I admit I care very little for the human condition, since I had felt the pain of those around me firsthand, I thought of myself with more of a soul now. At least for the time being, while my logical mind was overwhelmed with fear and emotion. "I think that I should like to tell you about it, Watson," I said quite suddenly; so much so that my friend jumped. "Although I think you had better leave this out of your chronicles of my adventures."

"I am ready to listen, Holmes," Watson replied.

I took a breath and slowly began.


	2. The First Narrative

**The First Narrative**

"_As you know, Watson, several weeks ago, I went undercover in the St. Anacharius Insane Asylum to gain information on some mysterious deaths that had occurred there. You will remember that you yourself were uneasy about it, and I tell you now, my dear Doctor, that your instincts were correct on all accounts. It would have done me no use, however, to scare myself with your deductions._

"_I think I need not explain I would expend any energy and try anything in order to achieve my goal. You will see soon enough the horrors I have had to endure, but I will not go out of my way to describe the appearance of the hospital. Suffice to say, it was a gray castle standing in the midst of a perpetual storm. Some things about its further design and the people within will become evident, but foreign pain and shock choke me more than usual, I confess._

"_I was at first taken to a small holding cell, where they assessed me, under the alias Samuel Higgins, and assigned me a permanent cell and inmate number, 221. Is that not humorous, Watson? It is the same number as our flat, after all._

"_Until I could formulate a plan, I kept to myself, ignoring other inmates and instead listening to the conversations around me. I learned how to acquire sedatives, should I need them. Nurses would administer them to patients who screamed loud enough, dissolving them in a cool glass of water. I observed the behavior of the doctors and nurses, listening for clues to the mysterious deaths and incidentally learned how to obtain better care. I was always on the alert._

"_This is how it was, Watson, until I devised my first plan of action…"_

Recorded by Doctor John Hamish Watson

January 14, 1890


	3. The First Attempt

**The First Attempt**

"Talk, you."

A dull pain reverberated through Holmes' body, making him wince. The doctor's cool voice was a mask, a ruse. He was angry and impatient; why else resort to shock therapy?

"You _will __**talk**_, damn you!"

Another shock, although the probe pressed deeper into the skin this time, to the same part of his body; shoulder, Holmes thought, but he couldn't be sure because he'd lost feeling there two shocks ago. He could still feel his left shoulder, so logically, it must be the right shoulder. But it was an educational guess at best. Holmes was weary of the torture.

His plan, which, as this proved, had worked marvelously, had been to get the inmates to enjoy his voice. No, more than "enjoy." _Need_. He wanted them _dependent_ on the sound of his voice.

When all was quiet in the corridors of St. Anacharius in the dead of night and the restless minds of the insane kept their mortal bodies awake and fatigue plagued his neighbors, he would begin to talk, his deep, calm voice of reason, so lacking in the mumblings of the clinically insane relaxed the others enough that, true to form, they became dependent upon his voice.

Holmes began by talking nonsense but soon began to tell stories as his audience grew. He was not given to telling tales of fancy, but he lacked no knowledge of them and had lived his own adventures enough to relate them fantastically to others. Adding a note of hysteria to his pitch or a nonsense word or some strange, strangled cry assured passing guards, nurses, and doctors he was still quite insane, but the inmates enjoyed him nonetheless. They were enraptured by his monologues, in love with his voice, and he was revered for both. He could get information out of other inmates in exchange for a fairytale, which was more than a fair trade and an easy one besides. He was known as "The Storyteller," and all the inmates had heard of him by the end of the week.

So, of course, subtracting this voice from the long, lonely nights, something these poor souls adored, would cause a commotion. Holmes passed the nights sitting in the darkest, dampest corner of his cell, sometimes sleepless, sometimes dozing lightly, sometimes lost in thought, but utterly and completely silent while the inmates called to him, pleaded with him, implored him to talk, to no avail. After only a single night of absolute silence from the beloved Storyteller, without the calm voice to soothe them, violent swears and curses damning him to various parts of hell replaced the soft pleading and tears. Holmes had never heard some of the profanities that passed from the mouths of the insane and in total had been damned to hell 1,195 times. He was amazed, but then he wasn't, as he sat with the smile of an engorged snake, his knees curled into his chest, as inmates in passing to be examined to treated spit at him, restrained by nurses. Others noisily pissed in his direction and pushed undesirable food through the high windows into his cell.

To the credit of the staff, the disruption was noted during the forth night, when Holmes was led away smiling his victory while his neighbors who had once loved him jeered, thrashed against the bars, and danced around like natives.

When all kinder methods to procure his voice (treatment for various diseases, scolding from the nurses, a week in solitary confinement) failed, harsh measures were taken. Hence the shock therapy.

Holmes winced when he was shocked right over a tendon in his right knee. The doctor was getting slowly more impatient by degrees.

"You _will_ talk, you know," the doctor mused, prodding Holmes hard near the groin, causing the detective to buck against his restraints. "Nothing else is wrong. You simply refuse to speak." He chuckled, running the electrical probe down the length of Holmes' arm. The nerves there were dulled from his use of cocaine and produced no reaction, much to the doctor's dismay because he frowned.

Holmes studied the doctor hovering over him. He couldn't have been all that much older than himself, eyes dark and set close together merciless in their gaze, framed by an angular face. He was the torture specialist, a man with no obvious ties to tedious morals who could and would use any method to produce results. His hands were dry and cracked from being constantly washed, his closed stained with blood.

Holmes was sure that this was the "Devil in White" that the inmates feared, likely for good reason. The man's sadistic smile chilled him all the way to his bones. He would have called it fear, but he dubbed it apprehension to keep himself from going into hysterics. It would do him no good to succumb to emotions just yet. Besides, he knew this man was just as weak as the men and women he tortured for a living.

Pain. Deep, searing, raging pain made Holmes strain against the straps holding him to the table. The electrical prod had been stabbed right into the very center of his exposed stomach. Holmes bit back a groan and shut his eyes tight. The light fare he was fed as an inmate hardly protected his important internal organs. It was only a matter of time before this "devil" found something more vital than his stomach to poke at.

The doctor seemed to enjoy his patient's reaction to the prod. "I don't know what you're up to, 'Storyteller.' You're a troublemaker. I _don't like_ troublemakers." Again, there was a sharp prod to his stomach and again Holmes strained against it, groaning through clenched teeth. "Forget about talking. I want you to _scream_."

The pain in Holmes' body came close to overwhelming him. The doctor's prodding became deeper and more eager as it became harder for the detective to hold back his cries. This plan had not failed, not exactly. He had a suspect, a man who could very well be the final step in the chain of events that led to the mysterious deaths. But the prodding to his stomach reminded him of a young woman given to hysteric fits he'd met while on that particular floor. There was no way he would be put back there, but the information she'd given him was invaluable.

Holmes now needed to return to his cell to recover and think. The only way to do that would be to comply with his torturer.

A deep prod to his midsection that nearly touched his spinal cord and Holmes cried out in pain, a deep, guttural groan that may have been a little too theatrical but worked for his purposes.

"That's better," the devil doctor purred. He shouted to a nurse attending the table. "Take him back to his cell! If he causes any more trouble," he grinned at Holmes in a demonic way, "send him _straight_ to me."

"Yes, sir." The nurse unstrapped Holmes and shoved him unceremoniously out the door.

_I had changed positions during my recounting of the event from lying to sitting, and now did not know which part of my body ached more, my head or my side. I alternated between holding both until I heard Watson rise. Most likely, his doctor instincts were coming to life._

_I found I was correct when he spoke. "Holmes! Are you all right?"_

"_I am fine," I replied, hearing the strain in my voice as the remembered pain sent shivers through my exhausted, lean body. "I will continue the tale later; I am very tired."_

"_Of course. You should sleep, Holmes." Watson watched me rise and helped me to my room. "I must go and see to some patients, but I shall return in time for dinner."_

"_I shall await you, friend Watson." I smiled at him kindly and then retreated to my room. I pulled my curtains and turned off the gas so that no light dared disturb me. Then, I climbed below my covers and fell fast asleep._


	4. Intermission

**Intermission**

I awoke later to find it darker than before. Evening had set in during my rest, and I realized what had awoken me was the presence of another. I sat up upon my bed and called softly, "Watson?" I heard the slight panic in my voice. Me? Afraid?

Yes, of course. The horrid dream I'd had of another experience in that terrible mental institution still had me held firmly in its grasp. I had never been quite so afraid in all my life, and I needed to know that my friend was outside.

"I'm here, Holmes," Watson called, and I had never felt so relieved to hear my friend's voice. My heartbeat calmed as I heard him come to the door. "May I come in?"

"You may, but I am coming out presently, so you may as well wait." I replied lightly.

I could hear Watson's smile. "All right." I heard him go away from the door.

I took my pipe and shook the ashes out of it. I nibbled on the end of it from pure habit and then took it from my mouth as I went out into the main part of the flat. Watson had started a warm fire in the fireplace, keeping the cold January air at bay. A warm chicken dinner lay out on the table, and Watson was just cutting it up, having already poured tea.

I was once again reminded of my hunger by a soft grumbling deep in the pit of my stomach, and my mouth watered at the rich smell of the cooked bird. I sat in my chair across from Watson, drinking my tea slowly, wondering if I couldn't manage a little food. It would probably help dispel the slight queasiness and lightheadedness that had begun to plague me whenever I stood.

Watson served me and then served himself. I poured more tea for both of us, my hands shaking uncontrollably. My friend noted this and frowned in concern. I didn't need him to speak to know that his worry for my health was growing. I smiled, placing the teapot back on the table. "Don't look so concerned, Watson. I will be eating dinner, on pain of death!"

Watson chuckled. "I'm relieved your appetite has returned, Holmes."

I nodded, tucking into my dinner. The chicken was of normal quality, but as Mohandas Gandhi once said, "To a man with an empty stomach, food is God," which was as true for me as it would naturally be for any other human being. Sometimes, I became apprehensive if a bit stuck in my throat, but I forced myself to continue, if not for my own sake for Watson's, who tried not to make it obvious he was watching me with the concern of a medical practitioner and friend both. I didn't let on I'd seen him observing me, but a warm feeling bubbled to the surface of my entire being, and I felt quite ecstatic to have earned his affections.

"I shall be ready to commence my tale soon," I announced after half of my serving was gone. I felt better for a little food in my stomach, and the warmth of the flat seemed more attracted to me now than it had been before. It was a sleepy, homey feeling I had not had previous chances to experience.

"At your leisure. These things take time." Watson replied, sipping his tea.

I stood up and stretched, soon resuming my place on the settee. With a contented yawn, I began my narrative once again.

_The Holmes/Watson pair I'm referencing the most is the Ronald Howard and H. Marion Crawford pair from the Sheldon Reynolds production of __Sherlock Holmes__. I must confess they're my favorite Victorian-era pair._

_If you haven't seen the series, it's worth looking up on Youtube. I can't go a night without watching an episode!-SH_


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